


The Fine Print

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Christmas, Crack, Gen, Santa's Elves, The Santa Clause - Freeform, idek, tracksuit mafia - Freeform, what is this i do not even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint accidentally shoots Santa Claus, he calls Phil Coulson to help him figure out what to do next.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Boss,” came Clint’s voice down the phone, panicky and incredulous, “I think I killed Santa.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I don't know where to go with this, so suggestions?

** Chapter One **

Phil came awake immediately when the phone rang. Grumbling to himself, he sat up, and headed for the phone.

Nick was usually good about not sending him out places on Christmas Eve, or Christmas for that matter, but if he was getting a call-in this time of night it must be truly urgent.

Phil picked up the phone.

“Coulson.”

“Boss,” came Clint’s voice down the phone, panicky and incredulous, “I think I killed Santa.”

* * *

It took Phil half an hour to drive to Clint’s place. He wasn’t pleased about being called out in the middle of the night for what sounded like a truly ridiculous excuse, but Clint had sounded genuinely distressed and Phil was curious in spite of himself.

The moment he knocked on Clint’s door, it was flung open.

“Oh thank God,” said Clint, sagging in relief. “Sir, you need to come up to the roof and see this.”

“See what?” Phil asked.

“Just wait,” Clint said, shutting his front door and already heading for the stairs. Shrugging to himself, Phil followed.

Clint’s apartment was on the top floor of the building, so it only took one set of stairs to get to the roof. Phil stared. There was a sleigh parked on the roof, a set of reindeer harnessed to it. A few feet away was the body of an overweight elderly man, dressed in a Santa suit, with a very familiar arrow through him.

Phil walked toward the body, Clint following, but as he got close the man suddenly _dissolved_ into twinkly, sparkling lights, leaving only the Santa suit behind.

Phil slowly turned around to stare at Clint. Clint stared back. Neither of them could believe what they had just seen.

Phil looked back. The suit was still there.

“You killed Santa,” Phil said slowly, genuinely willing to consider the idea for the first time.

Clint just made a despairing face.

“You killed Santa,” Phil repeated, because some things needed to be said more than once.

“It was an accident!” Clint protested. “There was some guy stalking around on my roof, I thought it was an assassin or something! Who says it was really Santa, anyway?”

“The way his body disappeared in a haze of twinkly lights makes the idea seem more plausible.” Phil paused a moment, and added, “As does the reindeer and sleigh parked on the roof.”

“Oh God,” said Clint, face crumpling, “I really killed Santa, didn’t I? Shit. Shit, shit, _shit._ ”

Phil restrained himself form making a joke about how Clint was definitely on the naughty list for this one, and instead crouched down next to the now-empty Santa suit. Going through the pockets, Phil found several candies, an embroidered handkerchief, and what appeared to be a business card.

“What’s that?” asked Clint, as Phil inspected it. 

“Business card,” Phil replied absently, frowning down at it. The centre of the card said simply, _Santa Claus, North Pole_ , but when Phil looked closely, what he’d first taken to be decorative edging around the card appeared to be very tiny print, too small to read. Phil turned the card over and read the message on the other side.

_ If something should happen to me, put on my suit. The reindeer will know what to do. _

Phil wordlessly handed the card to Clint. Clint read it.

“Well, that sounds simple,” he said after a moment. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Right?”

“Maybe,” Phil replied. He pulled out the ridiculous Swiss army knife Jasper had given him, and flicked out the miniature magnifying glass.

“Sir, is that a _magnifying glass?_ ”

“Pass that back for a minute,” Phil requested, holding out a hand for the card and ignoring Clint’s question.

Clint obediently handed the card back, and Phil held the magnifying glass over the tiny text.

“ _The Santa Clause_ ,” Phil read out. “ _In putting on the suit and entering the sleigh, the wearer waives any and all rights to any previous identity, real or implied, and fully accepts the duties and responsibilities of Santa Claus in perpetuity until such time that wearer becomes unable to do so by either accident or design_.”

There was a short pause.

“Okay, maybe it’s not so simple,” Clint conceded. He rubbed a hand over his face. I’ve really messed up this time, haven’t I? What the hell am I going to do?”

“Not panicking would be a good start,” Phil said calmly, although he had no more idea than Clint did. “Let’s go back inside, we can talk this over where it’s warm.”

“Yeah,” said Clint, “yeah.” Looking lost, he headed for the door. 

Phil followed, with one last glance at the waiting reindeer. 


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter Two **

Half an hour later, they still didn’t have a solution.

Phil wanted Clint to ignore everything that had happened, write out a report, and let SHIELD handle the rest. The problem was, Clint didn’t seem able to accept that plan.

“Think of all the kids, Coulson,” he pointed out, looking agitated. “All those kids who won’t get presents because of me. I can’t do nothing. I have to become Santa. Oh God, do you think I’ll have to grow a beard? I’d look an idiot with a beard.”

“Barton,” Phil said patiently, “SHIELD can handle this.”

“With all due respect, sir, I really don’t think they can.” Clint looked miserable, but determined. “I’m putting on the suit.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Phil said firmly. Clint looked insultingly surprised. “Barton – Clint,” Phil corrected himself, because this wasn’t a SHIELD mission, “We have no idea what will happen to you if you put on the suit and get in the sleigh. The least I can do is come with you, if you’re certain that’s what you want to do.”

“It is,” Clint said firmly. “I can’t not do this.”

Phil sighed.

“Then let’s go.”

Nothing much happened when Clint put on the enormous Santa suit, except that as one all the reindeer turned to stare at him. While Clint was trying to sinch in the waist of the suit with the belt, Phil climbed into the sleigh. He was glad he’d taken the time to put on his overcoat and scarf before he left home. If they were going to be out flying in the open – part of Phil, the rational part, recoiled incredulously at the idea, but the strictly pragmatic part of him grimly accepted the absurd situation – then it was likely to be a long, cold night. Phil tucked his hands into his pockets, and was glad for the gloves he was wearing.

“Huh, this thing is pretty warm,” Clint said in surprise. He looked ridiculous in the oversized suit. “Okay. Sleigh time.” He approached the sleigh cautiously, eyeing the staring reindeer warily. He climbed in and sat next to Phil, gingerly picking up the reins.

Immediately the reindeer began to move forward.

“Oh shit,” said Clint, as they approached the edge of the roof, “oh shit oh shit _oh shit_ – _”_

For two seconds they were airborne, then the sleigh came down onto the roof of the building next door with a quiet _thump_.

The reindeer stood placidly.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Phil mused.

“What now?” Clint asked, looking shaken. Phil supposed that flying reindeer wasn’t something he encountered every day, and so far tonight everything had been pretty weird. Phil glanced at the large sack on the floor of the sleigh.

“I think you have some presents to deliver,” he observed.

Clint took a deep breath.

“Okay. I can do this.”

Lifting the sack over his shoulder, Clint hesitated, then began walking towards the ventilation vent. As he drew near, it turned into a chimney.

Phil blinked.

“Well, that’s convenient.”

“What the _fuck?”_ Clint yelled out, and approached the chimney with even more wariness than when he’d approached the sleigh. Nothing else strange happened, so with a shrug, Clint jumped into the chimney.

Phil couldn’t help feeling concerned as he waited for Clint to return. All of this was beyond the realm of logic – Santa was a children’s story, a myth with even less basis than the Norse myths. Thor and his compatriots might exist, but _Santa Claus?_ Tonight was straining even Phil’s ability to take things in stride.

There was a noise form the chimney, and Phil glanced over. The present sack reappeared first, rising into the air. A moment later Clint came into view, dangling from it like it was a hot air balloon. He looked a strange combination of startled charmed, and disturbed.

“Well, that was freaky,” Clint said, as he settled onto the roof. The sack slowly drifted down until it was hanging from his shoulder. “Fun, but freaky.”

“Everything okay?” Phil asked.

“Yeah, it went fine,” Clint said, his expression one of disbelief. “Apparently the sack is magic, because besides the floating thing it lets you pull out the right present for whoever lives here, and it’s like Mary Poppins’ bag. Coulson, you should have seen it, one of the things I pulled out was a rocking horse, and no way it should have fit in there.”

One of the reindeer snorted impatiently.

Clint walked over and tossed the sack back into the sleigh before vaulting into it himself.

“Hey Coulson, how do you think Santa delivers presents to every kid everywhere all in one night?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” said Phil.


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter Three **

It was, as Phil had suspected it would be, a long and cold night. He found himself drifting off to sleep, and wished he’d worn a hat. His head was freezing. Leaving dignity behind, he pulled up one of the blankets lying across the sleigh seat, and wrapped it around his head and shoulders. Clint sent him a look which was part concern, part amusement, and Phil ignored it.

Phil was dozing off a little when Clint reappeared from the latest chimney and nudged him. 

“Hey sir, I brought you some cookies.”

Phil blinked out of his doze.

“Cookies?”

“Yeah, they left some out for me,” Clint said, looking pleased. 

“They left some out for Santa," Phil corrected, but accepted the handful of cookies. “Who you shot.”

Clint made a face at him, and climbed back in the sleigh, while Phil ate. The cookies boosted his blood sugar levels, and Phil found himself feeling a little less drowsy.

“That was the last house,” Clint commented, as the reindeer began moving again. “All the presents are gone, I checked. Where do you reckon we’re going now?”

“I have no idea,” said Phil tiredly. “But wake me up when we get there.” He closed his eyes, and let himself doze off again.

It was the light and noise that woke him. When he opened his eyes, the sleigh was apparently perched on a descending platform in the middle of some kind of facility.

Clint was staring with his mouth open. Pulling the blanket off his head, Phil glanced around, and could see why. There were toys everywhere, in various states of completion, and the place was filled with children in bright red and green outfits.

As the sleigh slowly descended, one by one the brightly-dressed children seemed to notice that the sleigh contained tow unfamiliar men. By the time the sleigh reached the ground, several hundred children were all standing there staring in curiosity and consternation.

No, not children, Phil realized suddenly, as he got a good look at their ears. _Elves._ Apparently, they’d reached Santa’s workshop.

“Barton,” Phil said in the barest whisper. “Are we at the North Pole?”

“I think so,” Clint hissed back, hardly moving his lips. For a long moment Phil and Clint just stared at the elves, who continued staring back. Then a tall, slim elf who looked about twelve or thirteen years old pushed her way to the front. Her long blonde hair was tied back in orderly braids and wrapped around her head, and her bright red outfit reminded Phil distinctly of the SHIELD tactical suit. In fact, she reminded him oddly of Maria Hill.

“What happened to Santa?” the elf demanded, glaring suspiciously. Clint winced.

“There was an accident,” Phil said smoothly, getting to his feet, and kicking Clint in the ankle when he didn’t do the same. Clint stood hurriedly, looking horrendously guilty. “I’m Phil Coulson, and this is Clint Barton.”

“ _Sugar,_ ” said the elf angrily. “Great. That’s just great.” She glared at them both. “What kind of accident, huh? _Huh?_ “

Clint winced again.

“I might’ve, uh, shot him?” he offered guiltily. There was a horrified murmuring from the elves. “It was an accident!”

“Flipping Americans and their mother-hugging _guns_ ,” snapped the elf, pinching the bridge of her nose. She turned towards the other elves (while Clint muttered “It was an _arrow_ ”), and barked out, “Hey! Quit gawping and get back to work!”

The elves jumped and scurried back to their previous tasks. Phil felt a little easier without all of the eyes on him and Clint.

“You know who we are,” he told the elf. “Who are you?”

The elf scowled, but responded.

“I’m Scatterpuff, and I’m head supervisor of the workshop,” she said grudgingly. “So, you read the card?”

“Including the small print,” Phil agreed dryly.

The elf’s expression was somewhere between startlement and respect. She turned to Clint.

“So you know you’re the new Santa, then?” Scatterpuff asked.

“I guess,” Clint said uneasily. “You’re sure it has to be me?”

Scatterpuff gave him a look. Phil was inwardly impressed by how withering it was.

“You put on the suit, you sealed the contract,” she said. “The magic’s already begun working. Unless you can find someone else willing to wear the suit, you’re stuck with the gig. And _we’re_ stuck with _you._ ”

She turned and began stalking away, and after exchanging a glance, Phil and Clint followed. 

As she walked Scatterpuff called out introductions to each section of the workshop, until she reached a door right at the back. She waited for them to catch up.

“These are Santa’s rooms,” she said shortly, and led the two men into positively palatial quarters.

“Woah,” said Clint, looking overwhelming by the Christmas-themed grandeur. The ceilings were high and vaulted, the furniture painted gold, and the floors were marbled with green and red carpets here and there.

“So if Barton can come up with someone else to become Santa, he doesn’t have to?” Phil asked, to make sure.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Scatterpuff retorted. “I’ll go over your new responsibilities tomorrow, but for now I’ll leave you to settle in. I’ll send in one of the other elves with some supper.” With that, she left Phil and Clint alone in Santa’s rooms.

They looked at each other.

“Feel like exploring?” Clint suggested. Phil was tired and his shoulder was aching badly where Loki’s spear had gone through it, but he managed a one-sided shrug.

“Might as well.”

Santa’s rooms proved to consist of a small kitchen, a large dining room, a sitting room, a bathroom, and several bedrooms. One was clearly the master bedroom , but next to it was a smaller bedroom which Phil mentally claimed for himself.

“Santa?” called a high, tentative voice, and Phil and Clint returned to the sitting room to find an elf setting down a tray holding a plate of cookies and two mugs of hot cocoa.

“Hey, thanks,” said Clint, with a grin that made the elf blush furiously.

“Y-you’re welcome,” the elf stammered, and fled.

Halfway through reaching for a cookie, Clint frowned at the elf’s reaction.

“Did I just give an elf inappropriate feelings?” he wondered.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where should this fic go now? Any ideas, guys?


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter Four **

Phil was woken the next morning by the sound of his phone going off.

For a minute or so he just snuggled deeper into the blankets and his wonderfully soft bed, feeling exhausted and comfortable. But slowly the meaning of the annoying noise registered with him – i.e., that someone was trying to contact him – and with a sigh, Phil pushed back the blankets and reached for where he’d left his cell phone on the bedside table, the events of last night rushing back as he realized that he wasn’t in his own bedroom.

The caller was Fury. Phil sighed again, and answered the call.

“Director.”

“Coulson,” Fury said evenly. “Would you like to explain why according to the GPS in your phone, you’re currently at the North Pole?”

“It’s a long story,” Phil said evasively. “And to be honest, it sounds a little crazy.”

“Crazier than the fact that you’re spending Christmas Day at the North Pole?” Fury sounded dubious, but willing to be convinced.

“Well, I’m here with Barton, actually,” said Phil. “He got into a situation.”

“ _That_ I believe,” Fury said dryly. “What situation?”

Phil braced himself.

“He accidentally murdered Santa Claus, and is required to take his place.”

There was a long silence on the end of the line.

“Coulson, would you please repeat what you just said? I don’t think I heard right. Did you just say that Barton murdered Santa Claus?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Explain this shit to me.”

“I really don’t think it can be explained,” Phil said thoughtfully. “I spent half of last night sitting in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer, and then I met some elves. In Santa’s workshop. It’s not really a situation that lends itself to logic.”

“Phil, are you shitting me?” Fury demanded.

“I wish I was,” Phil replied. “Nick, this is real. I don’t know how it’s real, I don’t know why and honestly I don’t want to know, but it’s real. Barton killed Santa and now he’s his replacement. I can truthfully say that nothing in my career has ever prepared me for this. Even Norse gods are easier to believe than this is.”

There was another silence.

“Can you handle the situation?” Fury asked at last. Phil frowned in thought.

“I’m not sure. Either we lose our best sniper, or we find someone else suitable to become the new Santa Claus.”

“You want me to put someone on it?” Fury asked.

“Please.”

“Although how the hell I’m going to explain this assignment, I don’t know,” Fury muttered. “Check in every two hours, Coulson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And keep an eye on Barton. The last thing we need is him getting his stupid ass into even more trouble.”

“I agree.”

Fury hung up. Phil checked the time. According to his phone, it was five in the morning. Phil put it back on the nightstand, and decided to go back to sleep. He could check on Clint later.

* * *

The second time Phil awoke, it was because he was being watched. His eyes opened, and he looked around the room without moving his body, to keep up the illusion that he was still asleep.

He met the wide eyes of a small elf, who blushed when he realized he’d been caught staring.

“Sorry to wake you, mister,” he said, with an odd, short bow. “But Scatterpuff said I was to tell you breakfast is ready and waiting.”

“Thank you,” Phil said politely, and the elf gave him one last, curious look before he left the room.

As soon as the door was closed, Phil sat up. He’d hung his shirt and pants in the wardrobe the night before, and now he got changed back into them. Deciding to leave his overcoat behind for the moment, Phil wandered out to the dining room.

Clint was already there, staring in awe at what the elves apparently considered an appropriate breakfast for two people.

“Morning,” Phil greeted him, and Clint looked up.

“Hey, boss. Look at all this food!” He gestured at the eggs, sausages, and bacon that were piled on several plates.

Phil sat down and served himself some food, and drank some of the orange juice that was waiting for him.

“I can see why Santa is generally considered to be a bit on the heavier side, if he eats this much every day,” Phil remarked.

“Shut up, I don’t care.” Clint had never met a free meal he didn’t like, and the proportions of this meal were generous indeed. “This is awesome. I’m going to eat until I burst.”

Phil checked his watch. Almost time for his next check-in. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialed Fury’s number and passed the phone to Clint.

“Boss?”

“I promised Fury we’d check in every two hours,” Phil explained calmly. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh, man,” Clint complained, and gingerly put the phone to his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still would like ideas! Would you guys like to see Clint become Santa? Or someone else? Because at this point, I'm looking at someone else.


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter Five **

Judging from Clint’s expression, Fury was yelling at him. Phil went on with his breakfast, serene in his conviction that Fury yelling at Clint was the least the man deserved for getting them into this situation. He helped himself to some more bacon; it really was delicious.

Clint made several “uh-huh,” noises and said “yes, sir,” a couple of times, and after a few minutes handed the phone back to Phil with a scowl. Phil gave him an amused look, which made Clint roll his eyes. 

The two of them had almost finished breakfast when Scatterpuff strode in, her braids pulled tightly back and the buttons on her tac suit gleaming – because it looked too much like a tactical suit not to be, right down to the black boots she was wearing – and sent them both a searching look.

“Good morning,” Scatterpuff said briskly. “I trust you slept well?”

“Yeah, the bed was excellent,” Clint said cheerfully, through a mouthful of food. Scatterpuff’s mouth thinned, but she showed no other sign of her disdain.

“Miss… Scatterpuff,” Phil broke in, “I realize that Clint is the new Santa, and as such has a number of responsibilities. However, he still has ongoing responsibilities back home. Whether he chooses to become the new Santa or finds someone else, he needs to deal with those other responsibilities first.”

Scatterpuff narrowed her eyes at him. Phil gazed blandly back. Scatterpuff pursed her lips.

“Fine,” said the elf. “If that’s how it is, that’s how it is. The reindeer can drop you back home later. Technically Santa doesn’t have to be in place the whole year, so if you have to,” she frowned at Clint, “you can work from wherever you came from. But there are certain tasks that _must_ be completed. Your top priority are the naughty and nice lists.”

“The naughty and nice lists?” Clint echoed.

Scatterpuff gave him a frustrated glare.

“Don’t you know anything? _He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice; he’s going to find out who’s naughty or nice,”_ Scatterpuff sang, before she resumed speaking. _“_ The naughty and nice lists. The nice kids get presents, the naughty kids don’t. Santa’s responsible for checking who’s on each list.”

Clint’s brow furrowed.

“That doesn’t sound fair,” he complained. “I mean, it’s easy to be a nice kid if you’ve got a good home and everything you need, but what if you’re from a fucked-up family? Sometimes you can’t help being a naughty kid.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” Scatterpuff shrugged, “I’m just telling you how it is. Naughty and nice lists. _Your_ responsibility. We’ll send them out to you as soon as possible.”

Clint looked like he wanted to argue some more, So Phil quickly interrupted.

“I’ll make sure he checks them.”

Scatterpuff gave Phil an approving nod, even as Clint sent him a betrayed look.

“But Coulson–”

“Barton,” Phil hissed under his breath, hoping that Scatterpuff didn’t overhear, “ _you_ get to decide who’s naughty or nice.”

Clint’s face wore a look of dawning enlightenment.

“ _Oh._ ”

Phil sighed quietly to himself.

“So, uh,” Clint began, “if I’m Santa, can I expect any, uh, changes?”

“What do you think?” Scatterpuff asked rhetorically, and gestured at him. “You don’t exactly fit the whole ‘ho ho ho’ image, in case you didn’t notice.” Her gaze lingered on Clint’s arms for a moment. “In fact, you’re pretty much the opposite. So yeah, expect some changes.”

“What kind of changes?” Phil asked warily. Scatterpuff shrugged, and began counting them off on her fingers.

“One, you’ll start craving hot cocoa and Christmas cookies, find yourself willing to eat all the time–”

“He already does,” Phil put in, unable to help himself, and Clint went, “Screw you, Coulson.”

“–two, you’ll start putting on some weight,” Scatterpuff continued, ignoring the digression, and three, you hair will start growing and turn white.”

Clint looked appalled.

“My life is going to suck,” he groaned, sinking down into his chair. “So bad.”

“Fudge that,” Scatterpuff snapped, with enough authority in her voice that Clint and Phil automatically straightened. “Being Santa Clause is an _honour,_ you ungrateful little punk. But you know what, I don’t care what your feelings are. This is your role now, and you’re going to suck it up and deal with it. You get me?”

“Yes ma’am,” Clint said respectfully. He looked depressed.


	6. Chapter 6

** Chapter Six **

Clint spent the entire trip back to his apartment bitching about what was going to happen to him.

“You chose to wear the suit,” Phil reminded him several times. Clint didn’t seem to care, too busy grousing. It was a relief when the sleigh started to descend. As it dipped below the clouds, Phil saw that they were above a city, and hoped that it was New York.

The sleigh landed on the roof of Clint’s building a few minutes later. Phil started to climb out of the sleigh, and realised that there was a guy sitting nearby nursing a beer, watching them with raised eyebrows.

“Hey, Grills,” Clint called out, climbing past Phil and out of the sleigh. He was still wearing the Santa suit. It looked a little less ill-fitting than it had that morning. Phil wisely kept that information to himself.

“Hawkguy,” said the man on the roof, gesturing at the sleigh. “You in a Christmas parade, or something?”

“Nope,” said Clint. “I’m Santa.”

“Huh,” said the guy. He went back to drinking his beer. He seemed strangely at ease with the sleigh and flying reindeer on the roof. Phil wondered what else he’d seen Clint do.

“Friend of yours?” Phil asked, as he and Clint headed down the stairs.

“Kind of?” Clint guessed. “I mean, I think so. We talk.”

Clint pulled out his keys and opened his front door, only to stop in the doorway as a dog let out a happy noise and wandered over to sniff him.

“Hey boy,” he greeted the dog, ruffling its ears. The dog seemed pleased by this.

“I thought you said you were staying here for Christmas,” said a female voice. As Phil followed Clint inside the apartment, he saw that there was an attractive young woman sitting on the couch. Kate Bishop of the Young Avengers, Phil realised. That’s right. Clint was something of a mentor figure.

“Who’s this?” Bishop asked, eying Phil.

“This is Phil Coulson,” Clint introduced. “My handler.”

“What, you were away on a mission over Christmas?” Bishop demanded, raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly.”

“He got himself into some trouble,” Phil explained. Bishop raised the eyebrow further.

“Isn’t that basically his entire life?”

“Shut up,” Clint told her. 

Phil decided that he liked Bishop.

“You could say that,” he agreed.

“I hate you both so much,” Clint complained, heading for his fridge and pulling out a beer. He tossed it to Phil, who caught it automatically, and pulled out a second for himself.

“So what kind of trouble did he get himself into this time?” Bishop asked.

“It’s nothing,” Clint said hastily, “nothing you need to know about –”

“Santa Claus is real, and Barton shot him,” Phil said concisely, because he wasn’t covering for Clint on this one. Clint winced, and visibly braced himself.

Bishop stared at Phil.

“Seriously?”

Phil waved a hand at Clint.

“Meet the new Santa.”

“Oh my God,” Bishop said, and punched Clint in the arm. “Santa. _Really_.”

“It was an accident!”

“You shot _Santa Claus_ ,” said Bishop. “You killed Christmas. Congratulations.”

“I know it sounds bad,” Clint defended himself, “but I thought he was one of the tracksuit mafia!”

“Tracksuit mafia?” Phil asked curiously. Clint winced again.

“Uh–”

“Clint pissed off organised crime,” Kate explained. “They’ve been coming after him for months now.”

“Kate!”

“And you didn’t report this to SHIELD?” Phil asked coldly, unable to believe it. No, actually, he could believe it just fine. It sounded just like something Clint would do.

Clint curled in on himself a little.

“What were you _thinking?_ ” Phil demanded.

“I could handle it myself?” Clint ventured.

“Explain.” Phil rubbed at the headache blooming at his temple.

Clint made a face.

“It’s sort of complicated, but – Ivan, who used to own the building, he was tripling everyone’s rent so he could throw them out, right? So I tried to pay for everyone, but, well, that didn’t go so well. And then there was this girl–”

“Never mind,” said Phil. He knew Clint’s history with girls. He didn't need to know the details. “Which division of organised crime?”

“Uh… all of them?” Clint said tentatively. “Maybe?”

“ _All of them?”_

“I’m not really sure?” Clint said uncertainly. “But the guys who keep actually coming after me wear tracksuits and call everyone ‘bro.’ The others just try to kill me sometimes.”

Phil focused on keeping his breathing even. His voice, when he spoke, was level.

“You and I are going in to SHIELD, and you are going to write this up in a report. _All_ of it.”

Clint’s shoulders slumped.

“This isn’t my day.”

“And then,” Phil continued, “you’re going to explain it to Director Fury.”

Clint paled. 

“Oh, man. I’m _dead._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is always about where I intended to finish this. It just took me forever.

** Chapter Seven **

Fury stared at Phil. Phil stared back, willing to play this game all day if that was what Fury wanted. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by the Director’s glare.

Fury looked down at the report on his desk.

“According to this report, Agent Barton has succeeded not only in killing Santa Claus, requiring that he stand in as Santa’s replacement, but has managed to attract the negative attention of, not one, but _all_ major branches of organised crime,” Fury stated. He went back to staring at Phil.

“That seems to be correct,” Phil responded calmly, because this wasn’t his fault. 

Fury slumped slightly, and gave a sigh.

“I don’t know how you deal with him, Coulson, I really don’t,” Fury muttered, before shaking his head. “Alright. We’ve found a suitable candidate for the Santa suit – you remember Zelazny, relegated to desk duty last year after the accident? He’s been briefed on the situation, and is willing to spend the rest of his life as Santa Claus. No living family, and most of his friends are in SHIELD, so we should be able to arrange his relocation with minimal fuss.”

“That’s great, sir,” said Phil, meaning it.

“He’s looking forward to it, apparently,” said Fury. “God knows why.” He sighed. “Sitwell is dealing with the information Barton gave us on the crime lords that are after him; that mess will take time to clean up, but it should be doable.” Fury levelled a look at Phil. “You get to explain to Barton what happens next. I want him giving that suit to Zalazny as soon as possible, before the ‘effects’ start taking place.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Phil agreed.

“Now get out of my office and deal with that punk-ass agent before the temptation to yell at him some more gets the better of me.”

With a slight smile and a nod, Phil left Fury’s office.

Fury’s secretary was sitting at her desk outside Fury’s office, and Clint was sitting on one of the chairs in front of her desk.

A familiar figure in a flashy suit was bothering Clint. Phil sighed inwardly, and waited, assessing the situation. Neither Stark nor Clint noticed his appearance.

“So, Katniss, I hear you’ve gotten yourself into an interesting situation,” said Stark.

“Did you just nickname me after a girl in a kid’s book?” Clint asked.

“If the bow fits,” Stark agreed, sauntering closer. “I have to say, while I’m not sure I believe that Santa actually, you know, exists, I’m a little impressed that you apparently have all of SHIELD convinced he is. Well done.”

“Stark,” said Clint, and waited until Stark looked at him inquiringly. “Shut up.”

Phil decided that it was time for him to intervene.

“Stark, Agent Barton is not here for your entertainment,” he said calmly, stepping forward. Clint sent him a look of relief.

“You really believe Legolas here killed Santa?” Stark asked incredulously, turning to him.

“Considering that I saw the body disappear in a bunch of twinkly lights, yes.”

“Interesting. When was the last time you had a psych test?”

“Mr Stark…” Phil began. Stark recognised his tone. 

“Okay, fine, I know when I’m not wanted,” he protested. “Just, someone send me a picture of Barton once he turns into the jolly old guy, okay.”

“ _Go_ ,” Phil told him. Stark shrugged, and walked forward into Fury’s office.

“Thanks, boss,” Clint said in relief. “Between Fury yelling at me earlier and then Stark, plus this Santa thing, I was ready to go crazy.”

“Director Fury has a solution to the Santa problem,” Phil told him, and Clint looked surprised and relieved.

“Wait, really?”

“You remember how Zelazny had that accident last year?” Phil asked.

“And they stuck him on desk duty, poor bastard,” Clint agreed, looking curious.

“He’s willing to take over as Santa for you,” said Phil. “Director Fury wants you to get the suit to him as soon as possible.”

“That’s great,” Clint said, then paused. “Actually, uh, maybe I should get this thing laundered first?” he suggested sheepishly. “I’ve been wearing it a while, and you know, it was hot in the workshop, and I was sweating–”

Phil resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Just get the suit to Zelazny before he goes home for the day,” he said wearily.

“Yes, sir,” said Clint, eyeing Phil warily.

* * *

Given the way his past twenty-four hours had gone, Phil wouldn’t have been surprised to find that something else had gone wrong. Everything, however, seemed to be going to plan. Oh, Sitwell kept complaining bitterly about being called in on Christmas Day to sort out Barton’s mess, and the other agents on duty didn’t seem pleased to have actual work to do, either, but Phil ignored them. His Christmas Day wasn’t going the way he wanted, either, but with luck, he’d get to spend the evening eating some of the glazed ham that was sitting in his fridge, and watching some of the TV episodes he’d recorded over the past few weeks. Maybe it was a boring way to spend Christmas Day, but given how hectic his life usually was, the last thing he wanted was to buy into all the fuss of Christmas Day. He much preferred Christmas Day as a time to relax and take it easy.

The handover of the Santa suit went well. Clint – back in his usual off-duty shirt and jeans combo – met up with Zalazny in Phil’s office, and handed him the freshly washed and tumble-dried suit. Zelazny self-consciously stripped out of his uniform and put the Santa suit on. The moment he did, a subtle change gave over him: he straightened, his eyes brightening, and the depressed slump he’d had ever since the accident abruptly disappeared.

“Holy shit,” said Clint, staring.

“I feel… different,” said Zelazny, looking down at himself, as though searching for visible changes.

“Inform me the moment the elves make contact with you,” said Phil. “At the moment, you’re still on the books as an employee, officially; unofficially, consider this paid leave until you take up the Santa job.”

“Thank you, Agent Coulson,” said Zelazny, beaming at Phil. He turned, and before Clint could dodge, seized the other man in a hug. “And thank you, Agent Barton!”

“Uh, yeah,” Clint stammered uncomfortably, and Phil watched in amusement as he tried to work his way free from Zelazny’s embrace.

Zelazny left the Phil’s office whistling.

“That was one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen,” said Clint, staring in the direction Zelazny had gone.

“Agreed,” said Phil. He glanced at his watch. “And my duties for today are officially filled. If you don’t mind, I’m going home before I get sucked into another one of your epic misadventures.”

“That sounds fair,” said Clint, wincing. He hesitated a moment, but added, “Merry Christmas, sir.”

“You too, Barton,” said Phil, and fervently hoped that the rest of his Christmas passed more uneventfully than it had so far.


End file.
